


A Series of Meetings

by dvrthncx



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Empire, Enemies to Lovers, Imperial Agent - Freeform, Longing, M/M, Meeting, Prejudice, Pride, Sith Warrior - Freeform, dark side, mlm, my OC's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvrthncx/pseuds/dvrthncx
Summary: A compendium of the different times Lord Melwas (a sith pureblood Sith Warrior, Emperor's Hand) and Marttirs (a rattataki Cipher Agent for Imperial Intelligence) crossed one another's paths. From the Sith Academy on Korriban to peaks of Alderaan's mountains to the colossal city of Nar Shaddaa, this is the story of how these seemingly radically different (but actually very similar) imperials went from despising one another to falling madly in love.[Pride and Prejudiced inspired]
Relationships: marttirs/melwas
Kudos: 3





	1. Dromund Kaas – 10 ATC

It wasn’t any different than Imperial Intelligence HQ. It was even part of the same building—all one Imperial Citadel. And yet, as he stepped through the entrance to the Sith Sanctum, Marttirs trembled slightly, like a child who knew he was breaking the rules but was too intrigued to stop. He knew that he had the full right to be there: not only had a member of the Dark Council invited him, but he was also an agent of the Imperial Intelligence branch—an equal, if not more important asset to the Imperial war effort than the Sith. Yet there was a sinister sort of foreboding feeling about the place, as if the cavernous space inside constructed by imposing grey and black transparisteel beams were not welcoming him into it’s elite folds as at IIHQ, but devouring him—swallowing him whole. He paused for a moment just inside and leaned against a wall, breathing, trying to steady himself. A terrible sensation of fearful dread seized at his heart; he’d never felt this before, not even in a fight. It was not easy to scare him, which was part of what made him the ideal candidate for Imperial Agent.  
  
I must not show fear, he thought to himself firmly, putting forth an effort to steel his heart against the sickening terror which assaulted it. I must not appear weak before Darth Jadus. He felt almost certain that his success, his life, depended upon that.  
  
He was starting to get himself under control when he felt a pricking on the back of his neck—someone was watching him. He looked up and saw a tall, stern looking Sith pureblood observing him from several meters away. Of course, he wore Sith robes, and the look of haughty superiority on the half of his face that was not obscured by his chin-length black hair seemed directed entirely at Marttirs. Yes, the agent knew exactly his type: the pureblood from a good family who had passed the formidable trials on Korriban, who looked down upon aliens and non-Sith for their inherited lack of power, and knew himself to be better than all of them, more deserving of success, praise, honours, and power just by right of fortunate birth. Marttirs detested this attitude, despised the fact that he was treated like unworthy, disloyal scum because he was so unlucky as to be born a Rattataki rather than Sith pureblood or even human. But he had always known that defying them, embroiling himself in their petty battles, was the best way to ensure his own failure. No, the only way to deal with them was to encourage them in the belief of their own superiority, to earn their respect through self-abasement in their presence. To succeed, to defy their standards for aliens, was to feed into the unjust and oppressive nature of their system. Marttirs had learned this long ago; that was why he had made it as far as he had; that was why he was one of only two aliens working at IIHQ. He had proven them all wrong by letting them think they were right. Whoever this Sith was, he was certainly nothing special, and his vanity would require to be dealt with just the same as the rest.  
  
Marttirs’ path to Darth Jadus’ chambers would take him past the obtrusive Sith, and he mentally prepared himself for whatever Sith-superiority attack he was likely to receive. As Marttirs proceeded across the open central space, he trained his gaze firmly away from the Sith but kept a watch on him out of the corner of his eyes. As the agent approached, the Sith’s attention was drawn away by one of his peers, a young human male with light blond hair which severely contrasted his pitch-black robes. The human engaged the Sith in conversation such that the Sith was forced to turn his back on Marttirs, who nonetheless did not attempt to correct his course to pass by farther away from the Sith. He would not show them fear. As such, when he passed, he briefly overheard their conversation.  
  
“Why don’t you just show him the true meaning of his own weakness then?” The human asked in a blasé tone. “I hate to see you standing about in this stupid manner, Melwas.”  
  
“To do so would be beneath my dignity,” the Sith, Melwas, replied. “I am sure, his species and station are so entirely beneath my own as to fail to tempt me to humiliations; it would be neither honourable nor beneficial.”  
Marttirs did not hear the rest, for he had proceeded out of range of hearing, and did not intend to stop and find an excuse to linger. For one, if his existence was worth so little to this Melwas, then it could be no benefit to either to force the proof of it upon the Sith, nor could the Sith have anything to say to or about Marttirs that would be worth hearing. For another, he could not risk being late to Darth Jadus, for as much as he distrusted and disliked the Sith Lord, he needed to please the Darth (for now) for his own benefit. Marttirs passed purposefully into the corridor leading to Darth Jadus’ chambers. As he did so, he could feel a sort of burning sensation on the back of his neck, and knew that Melwas was once again watching him as he passed out of sight.


	2. Korriban -- 10 ATC

Melwas milled about in the library, bored. Waiting on Darth Barras’ next assignment had detained him on Korriban longer than he had expected, and he was eager to be off-world, anywhere else in the galaxy—preferably somewhere he didn’t have other Sith breathing down his neck and the almost oppressive sense that everyone in sight wanted to kill him either for prestige or for sport. Not that he didn’t understand, of course. He was Sith, and he had grown up as such; this was just part of who he was, just part of the life that he had chosen. But he far outranked most of the more permanent residents at the academy, and more and more of them were overly ambitious alien slaves, wantonly violent and objectionably silly in their presumption of power. Melwas found the whole thing unpardonable, and to remain in such company was, he felt, a severe blow to his dignity. I had much better be on Dromund Kaas, or on the warfront crushing separatist and slave rebellions and increasing my power than fending off futile and insulting attempts at my death—or worse, my allegiance, he thought as he scanned a datacron at random, more out of boredom than out of interest.  
  
It was at that moment that he sensed a vaguely familiar presence. He glanced up and saw, on the other side of the library, a Rattataki speaking in low voices with the master of the archives. He wasn’t dressed in Sith robes, but in an Imperial Operative uniform. The alien I saw on Dromund Kaas, the Sith warrior remembered with a shock. And here he is on Korriban? He must have some extremely powerful benefactors to have been invited first to the Sith Sanctum and now to our ancient homeworld. I would pity him if I didn’t find it insultingly imprudent of the likes of him to presume a claim to such connections. Before he could look away, the Agent glanced up and caught Melwas’ gaze with his own piercing blue ones. They held for a moment, until the Agent’s attention was recalled by the archivist, and Melwas turned away quickly, busying himself with the datacrons on the shelf. He felt quite shaken by the look that the Agent had given him, but could not understand precisely what it was that had moved his sensibilities so much. He can’t possibly be Force-sensitive? Melwas wondered.  
  
Someone cleared their throat behind the Sith. He turned, his customary scowl fixed in place, and was both shocked and horrified to find the archivist standing with the Agent. “Lord Melwas,” the archivist saluted him, bowing deeply. “How splendid to see you here again. I do hope that you’re finding our archives to be of interest to you?”  
  
Melwas responded curtly that he was.  
  
“You will forgive my interruption of your contemplation; this young agent, Cipher Nine, has requested to learn more about Imperial history! He’s here at the invitation of Darth Jadus’ daughter—a lethal connection to have no doubt, but I daresay with his intelligence and quick wit, he might just survive her sponsorship,” the archivist said with a chuckle.  
  
Cipher Nine, who had also bowed respectfully to Melwas, now gave a small, polite smile to the archivist and said, “You flatter me, to be sure. I seek only to serve the Empire well and hope that my actions speak for my loyalty and my merit.”  
  
“You see, Lord Melwas? We could use more agents like our Cipher here, couldn’t we? I don’t think I’ve bet a better one!”  
  
Melwas responded in a quiet and vague affirmation. He was almost not listening to the archivist speaking; his entire attention was focused on the cipher agent, who at such an intimate range had no choice but to meet his gaze frequently. Melwas found himself quite at a loss for words, quite at a loss for how to act, even.  
  
“Say, I’ve got to be getting on with that acolyte over there who’s been waiting for me for a few moments. My Lord, would you do the honours to show our cipher agent where he might find the datacrons he’s looking for? You could ask for no brighter pupil, I assure you,” the archivist said, taking a step back.  
  
Melwas, at this point so entirely intrigued by this quiet yet intense and obviously clever agent, was quite on the point of accepting in spite of himself. But Cipher Nine just gave another polite smile and said, “No, please, I beg you do not waste your time assisting me, My Lord. In fact, I must be going; I should hate to be late meeting my benefactor for the first time. I don’t imagine that would bode particularly well for me.” With a deep bow and a last, quick glance at Melwas with sharp eyes, the cipher agent departed.  
  
The archivist stood there, looking rather awkward for a second, then seemed to remember his acolyte and scurried off with a hurried bow.  
  
Melwas stood where he was, watching the retreating figure of the cipher agent, lost entirely in his own recollections. From behind him, one of his fellow acolytes approached and leaned on his shoulder. “I’ll bet I can guess what you’re thinking,” Rona, one of the daughters of House Thul of Alderaan whispered into his ear.  
  
“I should daresay you cannot,” Melwas responded, unmoved by her presence, still staring at the door after the cipher agent, reliving every moment that the latter had caught his gaze with a weak sort of trembling that he did not find to be an entirely unpleasant sensation. Was this… admiration? Was the cipher agent… handsome? Alluring?  
  
“I bet you’re thinking what a lucky chance it is, that you managed to escape from such a dreadful indignity as having to show that scum alien about our library in search of knowledge to which he has no right of presumption; how fortunate that you escaped such a ghastly and demeaning situation,” Rona all but purred into his ear.  
  
“You conjecture is quite incorrect, I assure you. My thoughts were more pleasantly engaged. I was just meditating on the pleasant effect a pair of very fine eyes can bestow,” Melwas replied curtly, wishing to be left alone by his insipid companion.  
  
Rona cackled. “What, the agent? I am all astonishment!”  
  
“Excuse me,” Melwas said, removing his shoulder from her grasp and stalking out of the library, both infuriated and vibrating with a nervous sort of energy. He had never felt this way before and had certainly never expected that he might ever be attracted to someone of such low social standing as an alien! And not even a Sith Lord, at that! And yet… and yet he could not seem to forget that bright and captivating liveliness, that most attractive sharpness of the agent’s gaze. The Sith Warrior hurried to the training room. It is a very good thing that this is a purely aesthetic attraction, and one that shall likely not grow, as it is unlikely that I shall see him again soon, Melwas thought to himself as he began a training programme and his lightsabers hummed to life. I can be in no great danger from appreciating his fine eyes at a distance, just this once. The training droid rushed at him, and, fueling himself with the confusion of nervous energy, yearning, and self-loathing, the Sith Warrior threw himself at the droid with a furious shout.


	3. Starship: Fury – 11 ATC

“I beg your pardon?” Marttirs demanded the holo-image of the Sith Lord Melwas, who, until a few seconds ago, had quite inexplicably hailed him on his holo-com. “How was he injured?”  
  
“He was on his way to meet me in Sobrik when the blasted resistance struck. Luckily, I was one of the first on the scene, and I was able to bring him back to my starship to be treated. Be assured, Cipher Agent, that Agent Quinn is receiving the best possible care. He cannot, however, fulfil his duties in his condition, and Intelligence Headquarters have informed me that you are one of their top agents currently in system. I require that you set aside your current work for the time being and aid me until Quinn is once more able to resume his regular duties. Meet me in my ship’s hanger forthwith.” With that, Lord Melwas terminated the call and Marttirs was left staring blankly at the device. It beeped again within moments and a holo-image of Keeper flickered to life.  
  
“Agent, I have been informed as to the situation with Agent Quinn on Balmorra. Unfortunately, a request for reassignment from a Sith Lord is non-negotiable. Do as he asks but try to do it as quickly as possible,” Keeper instructed.  
  
“Very good, Sir,” Marttirs answered. The com clicked off and he put it away with a sigh. Well, then. It would appear that he would be working for one of the most despicable and bigoted Sith in the galaxy. “This will be fun,” he murmured to himself, setting off immediately from the Arms Factory for Sobrik.  
  
His trek across the dusty, war-torn wilderness took him about an hour, and he thought it would not do to keep the Sith waiting any longer—even if it were amusing and satisfying. Instead of returning first to his own ship to decompress after his most recent mission, Marttirs marched right up to the Fury class starship without hesitation or a hint of nervousness and was greeted by a 2V-R8 droid—the same model as he himself had been issued.  
  
“S-sir, welcome. I am 2V-R8, at your service. At this time, I must request that you state your name and business here,” the droid said, a slight hesitancy in his speech patterns that made Marttirs think his master must be very exacting indeed.  
  
“I am Cipher Nine, an agent of Imperial Intelligence. Lord Melwas has requested my presence,” Marttirs answered in a succinct and businesslike manner.  
  
“O-of course, sir. Please wait here while I go inform the master—”  
  
“There will be no need for that, 2V,” came the low timbres of the Sith’s voice as he descended the ramp of his ship and came into sight. He seemed just the same as he always had to Marttirs: neither welcoming or in any way inclined to engage with the cipher agent; proud and superior in manner as well in speech. “Get us beverages, will you?”  
  
The droid hurried off back into the ship leaving the agent and the Sith standing together in silence in the hangar. For the first time since receiving the Sith’s orders, Marttirs became aware of just how unpresentable he must look. Having gone weeks with only a few changes of field clothing and spending most of that time camping in the wilds or in war-camps on this ravaged dust-ball, he was utterly caked in dirt and grime, splattered with oil from the Troida droids and blood from the local terrorists he’d slaughtered. He did not miss the look of appraisal that the Sith gave him now that they stood face-to-face properly for the first time, and he was certain that Melwas must disapprove of such a sloppy appearance. He must not be the fearsome operative that others rumor him to be if he is offended by my appearance and punctuality, Marttirs thought disdainfully, taking in the Sith’s immaculate and expensive-looking robes.  
  
Melwas invited him up onto the ship where they shared beverages in the presence of the droid and a young twi’lek woman who sometimes made snarky little comments to Melwas, which seemed to both amuse and exhaust him, and to which he very rarely responded. Besides that, though, they sat in silence; a silence which Marttirs failed to account for when he considered the urgency with which he had assumed the Sith’s call. Inevitably, he could only conclude that the presence of the twi’lek put off the Sith Lord from explaining the mission. Unless there are some Sith customs to which I am entirely unaware, he thought, trying to ignore the frankly alarming frequency with which the Sith would gaze upon him with great intensity. When drinks were finished, Marttirs stood up and said, “My lord, I should like to see Agent Quinn, if it pleases you.”  
  
In silence, Melwas led Marttirs to the med bay where Malavai lay quite unconscious in a bed. His vital signs were weak, and he looked to be suffering from severe burns on his right arm and upper torso, but he was alive, and the medical droid assured him that Malavai would recover.  
  
Marttirs sat by Malavai’s bed and stayed with him when Melwas left, since the Sith still gave no indication that he expected to brief Marttirs with any immediacy. Though Marttirs had not known anything of Malavai personally, the agent personally checked the medical droid’s charts and readings, double-checked the machine connections and liquids—more for something to do than anything else. He found it exceedingly strange that the Sith should have offered up his personal medical facilities for the express purpose of healing an Intelligence Agent, and yet there appeared to be no hint of any more nefarious action afoot. “Sir, I am programmed to heal. Your efforts are entirely superfluous,” the droid informed Marttirs at least three times during the process, but each time Marttirs’ response was the same: “You are also programmed to obey your master, which makes my efforts entirely necessary.” In the end, though, he was forced to admit that, in fact, Malavai was indeed being taken exemplary care of and that, therefore, his suspicions of Melwas’ ulterior motives or possible treachery were entirely baseless. This fact, however, did not soften his heart to the Sith, but merely perplexed him.  
  
Eventually, 2V-R8 returned to inform Marttirs that Lord Melwas expected his presence in the briefing room. “I suppose I have not been given a choice but to follow you,” Marttirs said in a neutral tone, leaving Malavai to the care of the droid. When he came to the briefing room, he indeed found Lord Melwas, waiting for him along with the twi’lek girl, and … another Sith. Pausing in the doorway, the cipher agent bowed and said, “My Lords, you honour me greatly.”  
  
The second Sith, a female with long blond hair and piercing yellow eyes, sat at the table with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face. She looked entirely unamused with the situation, and Marttirs could feel the heat of her glare boring into him, but it made little difference. He would not be here if he did not have to be, though she could very well leave if she did not enjoy his presence. I am at the whim of your little stih friend, he thought bitterly.  
  
“Of course we do. And I think in return for this honour you will provide us with exemplary service,” the blond Sith replied, waving Marttirs to a seat.  
  
“I shall certainly perform my duties to the best of my ability,” Marttirs vowed, taking the seat offered him and sitting at rigid attention.  
  
“I am not so sure about ‘exemplary service’, Rona,” Melwas objected. “After all, the title ‘exemplary’ must be bestowed upon one who excels in everything he does, and one who does everything. I myself only know of five truly exemplary agents.” He turned his sharp orange eyes upon Marttirs.  
  
“Your opinion of agents is truly exacting,” Marttirs replied diplomatically but firmly. “Indeed, if your estimations of ‘exemplary’ qualifications are so high, I wonder at your knowing so many exemplary agents.”  
  
Melwas seemed mildly taken aback, and Marttirs saw his brow furrow ever so slightly. But before he could answer, the other Sith jumped in to affirm everything Melwas had said. “And you, Cipher Agent, you are just an alien.”  
  
Marttirs frowned. “Indeed. Which I presume means that your expectations of me shall be even higher,” he said in a forcedly flippant tone, as though it were a matter of course. “If you have so little opinion of my abilities, my Lord, you shall not wonder at my confusion over your electing me for this post.” He directed his comment at Melwas.  
  
“Your superiors speak highly of you,” Melwas said curtly. “We shall see whether or not you merit such praise. I shall need an operative in the field while Lord Rona and I run an anti-resistance errand for the incompetent militia units here. You will not be joining us in the thick of the fighting, but I shall need you nearby running tactical analysis and intelligence operations. Do you think you can handle this?”  
  
Marttirs just managed to keep a neutral expression and bowed his head. “Yes, my Lord. It should be no problem. What are the details?”  
  
***************  
  
After the briefing ended, the cipher agent disembarked from the Fury to return to his own starship and prepare for the impending mission. Melwas watched him go until he was out of sight, then sat there, lost in thought as he relived the briefing in his mind. Only vaguely was he aware of the fact that Rona was speaking, but she did not grab his attention until he heard his name. “What?” He asked, withdrawing from his reverie and the memory of the enticing cipher agent sitting just in front of him.  
  
“I was saying that he was such a dreadful mess! What utter lack of common decency, for him to have shown up here in such a state! Of course, it figures that an alien would have such a base disrespect for himself and for us as to appear before our glory caked in dirt and filth,” Rona exclaimed with incredulity. She carried on in that wise for several minutes, almost having a conversation with herself as the only response that Melwas afforded her was a little grunt every now and again. In reality, he had not found the agent’s appearance as horrendous as all that. Rather, he found that he was almost impressed by the agent’s dedication to duty and his obvious familiarity with the gritty reality of the war.  
  
“I dare say this escapade has quite affected your admiration of his ‘fine eyes’,” Rona said with a malicious cackle, clearly expecting Melwas’ affirmation.  
  
The sith, however, merely stood up and said, “Not at all. They were brightened by his dedication and vicious dealings with the Empire’s enemies.” He stalked out of the briefing room without deigning to bestow another glance upon Rona, who glared after him incredulously.


	4. Balmorra - 11 ATC

Marttirs preceded the two sith to the rendezvous point the following morning, arriving on the edge of the Sundari Plains just as the sun began to rise over the wretched wasteland that had once surely been a lovely field of green. The cipher agent looked out over the battleground, observed the craters formed by high-powered explosives and the wreckage of a small battle cruiser in the distance. He had skirted around the edge of the battlefield, he remembered, a few weeks back while working with the resistance, but had specifically opted not to engage in any imperial activities thereupon lest his cover be inadvertently blown. It was the first time he faced it as an Imperial, the first time he really looked at the destruction that had been wrought upon the planet’s surface. He despaired for all the natural beauty that must have been lost—what beauty there _could_ be in jagged, mountainous rock formations and low-sweeping plains. _So, this is what happens when a whole planet opposes the Empire,_ he thought. _This need not have happened if only they had accepted the Emperor’s rule. They could have had peace, and instead they have brought themselves unfathomable death_.

The sith would be carrying out a mission on the battlefield, subterfuge behind enemy lines to weaken their position and give the advantage to Imperial forces—an advantage, Marttirs could now see, that they badly needed. He would be camped behind Imperial lines following their movements and helping them to anticipate and dismantle heavy resistance; he would also be just close enough that, should need be, he could follow them and get them out of any trouble. Of course, he had not observed as much aloud when he noticed the strategic placement, but he well knew that operatives were positioned specially in order to extract their sith overlords should the need arise—and it rather frequently did. The cipher agent was greeted by a veteran of the battle, a general in the armed forces who showed him to his operations tent, introduced him to the necessary equipment, and instructed him as to the tactical positions of both the Imperial and opposing army on a holo-map.

A couple hours later, the sith arrived, shoving their way into the tent like they owned it. Melwas’ gaze instantly locked on Marttirs, who refused to return the gaze and instead accompanied the general in welcoming the sith with a deep bow of respect. “My Lords, I trust your journey all the way out here was not too tiring,” the eager general said.

Marttirs knew that such emotion would not be tolerated well by taciturn Melwas and ‘superior’ Rona. Indeed, he was correct, for Melwas made no response whatsoever while Rona sneered, “We aren’t here to exchange pleasantries, we are here to crush the resistance.”

“Y-yes, my Lords. I’ll … leave you to it,” the general stuttered, hastily making for the exit, but not before throwing Marttirs a sympathetic and worried look.

_I can handle myself_ , Marttirs thought defensively in return to that look, though he was quite refreshed by the small show of solidarity. These sith really were some of the most insupportable of the lot. As soon as the general had left them alone, Marttirs wasted no time beginning the briefing. “I won’t waste your time explaining the general situation, of which I expect you’re already well aware,” he began, leaning over the holo map and drawing up the image of the battlefield before them. “This is what we are looking at, then. You see that they have pushed well beyond their defensive trenches and into the Sundari plains here, almost right up to our base. If we want to have any hope of regaining our hold on the plains, we must render their forces disorganized and confused; that will give us the upper hand. Now, they have set up several temporary comms relays in the plains: here, here, and here.” Marttirs indicated three separate locations on the map with blinking red lights. “Intelligence reports that they are due to construct permanent comms relays as soon as they consolidate their hold on the land—a victory they think they can anticipate shortly. Destroying these will be key to disrupting communication between the troops and batallions fighting in the plains. However, your main goal will be the central communications tower _within_ the trenches.” He indicated it on the map, deep in the twisting maze of trenches on the other side of the plains. “Without this, their forces will be destabilized for weeks, for they use this to communicate with forces across the planet as well—we believe—as with Republic support off-world.”

Both of the sith glowered at the mention of the Republic and clenched their fists as if gearing for a fight with the very notion of the weak-minded democrats.

“I will be monitoring your progress from here, and will be able to advise you as to enemy movements as need be—”

“You underestimate our abilities, Cipher,” Rona sneered. “Perhaps _you agents_ require updates on enemy movement when you operate, but we are sith! We can handle ourselves.”

“Would not having the upper hand make you more efficient in eliminating the rebel scum? I should think that you would welcome any efforts to expediate the mission, my Lord,” Marttirs responded, not losing a beat. Though he knew well how to play the benign servant to the sith, he had grown quite exhausted of Rona’s confrontational and condescending nature. “What say you, Lord Melwas? Shall I withhold such information? I should not, after all, like to inadvertently insult your Lordships in attempting to be helpful.” Though his tone was neutral, his opinion and sentiments were very clear in his pointed address to the taciturn Sith.

Melwas wrinkled his nose slightly—in disgust or out of wounded pride Marttirs could not tell. “I do not see how your intelligence is any match for the Force,” was all that he said.

“Very well,” Marttirs said icily. “Then the only thing left for me to say is to remind you that if anything should go wrong I have been authorized to go in after you and see to the completion of the mission myself.”

“That service shall not be needed either,” Rona snapped.

“Indeed,” Marttirs said noncommittally. “That is all from me, my Lords. You know your mission. May the Force be with you.” He bowed as custom demanded and turned instantly to the controls. He did not see Melwas look back over his shoulder just before he ducked out of the tent, his gaze lingering on the cipher agent for a few moments before he let the flap fall into place and set off to the battlefield.

***************

Marttirs was more grateful than ever that he was an operative for Imperial Intelligence and not a Watcher. He had never envied the Watchers or the Keepers their jobs; sitting around and researching on a computer or overseeing others had never been tasks that he was particularly attuned to or fond of—a fact which was reinforced now as he sat watching the slow progression of the sith’s markers across the Sundari plains on the holo map. Though they had explicitly told him not to alert them to the enemy’s movements—foolish sith pride!—he had nonetheless decided to keep an eye out just in case. As of yet, nothing significant had occurred which the sith had not either avoided or overcame, and Marttirs was sufficiently impressed and equally resentful.

They had managed to nock out two of the temporary communications relays on the plains and were just approaching the third when out of nowhere a battalion of Balmorran resistance soldiers swept down on them from the right. Marttirs, leaning nonchalantly back on a stack of supply crates to watch the show, now stood at attention and marched over to the holo map. He was sure that he had not seen this battalion moving from the trenches—certainly he would have, even if he were not paying full attention to the map. _And what about the sith’s precious_ Force _?_ He wondered disdainfully.

The battalion seemed to be overtaking the sith, and Marttirs felt that he could no longer hold off contacting them, their ridiculous pride be damned! He opened the communications link and said, “Lord Melwas? Come in, Lord Melwas. Are you there?”

A few seconds of crackling silence ensued before: “Now’s not really a great moment, Cipher,” was panted back at him over the sound of blaster fire and lightsabers.

“I realise that. Status report, quickly,” Marttirs answered curtly in reply. If the sith were defeated, and he feared they might be, now might be his final chance to learn the truth of what happened so that he could complete the mission himself.

But the sith did not deign to respond that time. The link was cut and Marttirs pounded his fist on the dashboard in front of him in frustration as he watched the battalion surround the desperate sith. The situation was dire. One of the sith’s trackers flickered and then disappeared. The cipher cussed profusely, turning away from the map. If one of them had been killed, surely the other would be too unless they were very, very lucky. This mission was a bust, and he would have to go in and finish it himself without any more information than they had had. _It will be suicide,_ he thought, the adrenaline already starting to flow. Well, he did love a good suicide run. Made him feel alive. _And what fun it will be to show up those foolishly proud sith_.

The comm-link beeped.

Marttirs turned around in disbelief. He could not see either of the sith’s trackers on the holo map. _Was headquarters following the mission? The Dark Council? I shall have a lot to answer for…_ He thought, dreading the coming conversation as he marched smartly across the tent to face whatever scolding the sith had won him.

“Cipher… Cipher are you there?”

“My Lord?”

Melwas’ voice was hoarse, his breathing rough. He sounded injured. Exhausted.

“What happened?” Marttirs demanded at once, relief trickling through his veins like a cool, refreshing breeze on a hot summer day.

“Cloaking technology. We never saw them until they were right on top of us,” Melwas replied haggardly.

“And … did you try using the Force, my Lord?” Marttirs dared to ask, still running on an adrenaline high.

He heard Melwas snarl a savage curse. “Of course, Cipher. But when you’re on a battlefield and everything around you is causing a disturbance in the Force, you will die standing around like a fool trying to identify the source of every disturbance. Sometimes action must come before thought.”

“You’re quite confident that you can always tell when those times are for someone who was just ambushed,” Marttirs answered. When he received no response but stony silence, he asked, “Lord Rona, she is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you, I don’t see you on the map?”

“Found an underground bunker nearby. I’ve holed up within.”

“Alright send me your coordinates, I’m coming.”

Melwas began to protest haughtily but Marttirs interrupted. “My Lord, my orders are specific: complete the mission at all costs. You pride shall simply have to suffer this casualty for the good of the Empire. Get me those coordinates. Cipher Nine out.” He closed the link before the sith could reply. Never before had he been so bluntly disrespectful to a Sith Lord, but something about Melwas incited him to shoot verbal barbs cloaked in honourable adherence to duty. He could not resist. But, then, Melwas was so particularly insufferable to Marttirs that he begged to be teased and prodded.

The cipher agent was geared up and ready in minutes, and sure enough Melwas _did_ send him his coordinates. Having calculated the most efficient—that is, stealthy and quick—route to the underground bunker near the third comm-relay, Marttirs set off across the battle-ravaged plains.


	5. Balmorra - 11 ATC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hwooooooo it's been a long time since i've posted an update oups. this chapter honestly took me forever to write. BUT! have a little angsty sith who is in real danger of falling for his agent :)

Marttirs found the bunker with considerable ease and met no opposition. Crouched in a crater near the door, he carefully reconfigured the wires in the maintenance panel at the base of the structure to let himself in. Almost as soon as the doors banged shut behind him, a bright red light illuminated the otherwise dark space and Marttirs found himself staring down the point of a lightsaber at the sith’s face half obscured by shadows. “Hello to you too, my lord,” Marttirs said with calm sarcasm, standing his ground and waiting for the sith to withdraw his weapon. 

“You made it,” Melwas said with a significant note of surprise, lowering his sabre and taking a step back. “And in good time.”

“I’m good at my job,” Marttirs replied, unhooking a flashlight from his belt and lighting it up and illuminating the space around the two of them in a two meter radius. The bunker looked as though it hadn’t been used in weeks: a fine layer of Balmorran dust lay over everything; abandoned weapons caches and empty medpacks littered the small space; the air smelled stale and moist. Marttirs opened his holomap and observed the battlefield. “Right. We aren’t very far from the trenches, but first we need to take out the final temporary relay. The troops guarding it are numerous, and likely cloaked again as a precaution. Luckily for us, they don’t know about me. Unlucky for us, I can’t use a probe or my senses to tell their numbers or their scout positions while they’re cloaked, which means I may run into trouble if I try to navigate blind.”

Melwas snorted a derisive sort of laugh. “You plan to go in alone to do a job that two  _ sith _ couldn’t do?”

Marttirs looked the Sith directly in his eyes. “Yes. And I believe that stealth and wit shall prevail where brawn and bravado did not. But I will need your help, if cooperation for the success of the Empire is something of which you are capable,” he continued, speaking over the indignant exclamation he could see in the Sith’s enraged expression. “Since we are not exposed on the battlefield, you will be safe to use the Force to detect the cloaked enemy. If you do, I can slip past them unseen, disable the relay, and we can be on our way to the trenches before they’ve figured out what’s happened.”

Melwas was scowling and he remained silent for quite some time—so much so that Marttirs thought that perhaps it would have been wiser to eschew the insult he’d thrown before the request, for wounded stih pride almost never yielded positive results. After several minutes of Melwas scowling and pacing, though, the sith said, “There are five scouts which create a wide perimeter around the relay.” He pointed to their positions on the map. “And near the relay itself there are two clusters of warriors here, and here,” he pointed again. 

Marttirs stared at the sith for a moment and wondered whether this wasn't a trick of some sort; a trap that he would fall into just to prove the sith’s superiority complex. Inevitably, however, he knew that whether or not he chose to trust the sith, he would have to risk his life eventually for the mission. 

“I can sense your distrust,” Melwas growled after several moments of silence. “If you are not going to believe me, you shouldn’t have wasted both of our time asking for my help.”

Marttirs narrowed his eyes. “Is this how you mean to convince me to trust you?”

“I don’t mean to convince you of anything,” Melwas retorted. “Your folly is your prerogative. If it is a fault you possess then it is a wonder you survived so long in Imperial Intelligence. They are not known to suffer fools.”

“Fools do not trust blindly, especially when sincerity might be confounded with one of the most grievous faults in the galaxy: pride.” The agent was almost shocked by his own forthright hostility, this open battle that they had begun waging in the privacy of the bunker, finally away from the eyes of other imperials. But he could not help himself; if Melwas was determined to be so entirely insufferable, then he was determined not to take it lying down.

“Where there is real superiority of mind, pride will always be well regulated,” Melwas answered bluntly, almost dispassionately. “It has always been my practice to avoid such foolishness which exposes a strong understanding to ridicule.”

Marttirs merely smirked in response, for Melwas had proven his point: that the sith’s temperament demanded that the cipher agent untangle his pride from his sincerity--that he could not offhandedly trust what the sith said. Clearing his throat decisively, he diminished the holomap and picked up the flashlight. “The more time we waste, the more likely they are to repair the other relays and establish a comm link again. There’s a small crater approximately 500 meters from here, in the direction of the trenches. I’ll rendezvous with you there after destroying the final relay and we will make our way to the trenches.” He lifted his gun off his shoulder and turned off the safety. “Ready?” 

Melwas illuminated his lightsaber and crouched into a battle stance. Marttirs took that as an affirmative and, without hesitation, turned and blasted the bunker control panel to open the doors. No enemies waited outside. The cipher agent nodded to the sith and then darted out, activating his stealth device. He did not look back to watch the sith; he had eyes only for the apparently clear path to the comm relay. He crept slowly but expertly up to a high mound overlooking the landscape, where he laid down and observed the area immediately surrounding the comm relay. According to Melwas, he lay directly in between two cloaked scouts, each one approximately 50 meters away from him on either side. Below, he could see the small heaps of rubble and dirt where the clusters of defending warriors had apparently hidden. There was not a soul in sight.  _ Right, let’s see where the sith’s loyalties truly lie: with himself or with the Empire, _ Marttirs thought, hoping in spite of himself that he really could trust the Sith. He plotted a course to his objective, picked himself up, and moved out.

Getting to the relay was easy, all things considered, and Marttirs met no resistance.  _ It seems he was right after all _ , he thought, more than a little astonished and certainly pleased--against his will. Once he was within range of the control panel he lifted his gun, aimed, fired. The machinery exploded violently in a puff of orange and black. Marttirs shot again. Another explosion. He shot a third time. Just to be sure. There was no room for failure. Rebel reaction was almost immediate: the two clusters of guards de-cloaked and raised their weapons in the direction of the comms relay as they shouted confusedly at one another, unable to see through the billowing smoke, unable to detect the cloaked agent only 5 meters away.

_ Time to go,  _ Marttirs thought, already backing up. He turned tail and fled as the rebels started shooting their blasters every which way at the invisible saboteur. The cipher agent stopped only once to drop to a crouch and snipe the scout who had de-cloaked in front of him during the frenzy. Shouting behind him intensified along with blaster fire in his direction when the other rebels saw the scout fall. Marttirs sprinted over the low rolling hills of dirt, once probably covered in long golden-green grass, and did not stop until he had cleared the lip of the crater where Lord Melwas was meant to be waiting. His momentum carried him down the crater wall too quickly and he tumbled at the last, rolling into the fall and landing in a crouch clutching his gun and panting. Almost instantly, the point of a red lightsaber glowed just centimeters from his face and Melwas stood over him, glowering at a pile of dirt about two feet behind Marttirs. “Reveal yourself or die, rebel scum!”

Marttirs de-cloaked with a disapproving look on his face and moved with a dignified sort of grace away from the lightsaber. “You’re going to have to stop greeting me like that,” he said, getting to his feet and slowly regaining his breath. 

“You’re going to have to stop entering my presence the way an enemy might,” Melwas snapped back. 

“We’re on a battlefield; it’s not like I have time to announce myself,” Marttirs answered snidely. “Or is everyone a Sith’s enemy by default?”

The sith merely snarled and paced away. “Let’s get moving.”

Marttirs drew out his holomap once more and observed their position. “The trenches are about 300 meters away. What is our path like?”

“There are very few troops between here and there, but inside the trenches we will be fighting almost nonstop. The place is crawling with rebel scum.”

“I could use a little target practice,” Marttirs said with a sinister grin.

“Murder and mayhem await,” Melwas agreed, twirling his lightsaber impatiently. 

“Right, here’s the plan: the trenches have upper and lower levels, both occupied by the rebels. I’ll be slightly ahead of you on the upper levels; there are less troops there and it will offer a vantage point from which to provide you sniper support and tactical advice. You will move through the lower levels and cut through the ground forces as we move. This also means that you will be the one to take out the communications hub’s central computer. I’ll cover you from above when we reach the target. Ready?”

Melwas looked like he wanted to protest for a moment, but after a few seconds the only thing he said was, “Let’s go.”

They avoided all outgoing troops save for one scout, whom Melwas mercilessly slaughtered, on their way to the trenches. Kneeling behind a boulder near the entrance to the trenches, Marttirs and Melwas turned their comm links to the same frequency. “Give me a hundred meters head start. Then you go.”

Marttirs started to stand up but Melwas caught his arm in a tight grip. “Don’t get used to giving me orders like this, Agent,” he warned before promptly letting go.

Marttirs frowned at the sudden outburst but did not linger to discuss. The less time he spent arguing with the Sith, the quicker the mission would be over and the quicker Marttirs could remove himself from the sith’s insipid presence.

***************

Melwas watched the agent jog away, gun drawn. A tense, extremely controlled nervous energy radiated from the agent and Melwas knew that this would be a formidable opponent to face in battle: hyper alert and in complete command of himself but radiating with a savage fury. The realization that this Ratattaki operative should possess so obviously admirable a quality only enraged the sith who was practically prancing like a nervous Dathomiri horse waiting to be given loose rein.  _ 70 meters… 80 meters… 90 meters…  _ Melwas counted down in his head. As soon as the agent dropped at the edge of the trench and aimed his gun below, the sith sprang forth, lightsaber drawn, pushing off from the ground with the extra power of the Force and propelling himself like a blaster shot into the gaping mouth of the trench and the wretched, doomed rebels. 

The Sith fell upon the unsuspecting frontline with a furious battle cry and cut the first soldier clean in half with the red blaze of his blade before the others could even get a shot in. The blood in his veins seared his heart like fire and drove him to a red frenzy; the rest of the world seemed to blur out until the only remaining objects were his lightsaber and his enemy, encircled by a whirlwind tornado of red and purple fire: the hot energy of the living Force which blazed with the strength of Melwas’ self-loathing for the admiration he bestowed upon Marttirs, with the confused rage that he should find this inferior species so alluring. 

“My Lord!”

The crackling voice of Cipher Nine doused the raging wildfire and dulled it to a manageable flame. Melwas, panting, teeth bared, stood over the mangled bodies of rebels, his lightsaber humming contentedly, nearly 300 meters from the entrance. 

“I thought you were never going to stop. Didn’t we agree that I would stay ahead of you? We are supposed to be a team,” Cipher Agent said, his voice firm and disapproving.

“You should consider yourself lucky to have borne witness to the magnanimity of my power and lived to tell of it,” Melwas snarled in response, for it was the only response he could give. Who did the cipher think he was, scolding a sith lord--even if he  _ was _ technically right? The flame of his rage sparked dangerously in his heart, and though he did not yet feed it nor did he suppress it.

“And you should consider that we have a job to do and that its success is imperative to squashing this squalid rebellion for the glory of the Empire,” Cipher Nine snapped back. “Do  _ try _ to control your temper. I’m in position in front of you. Let’s move.”

Melwas gnashed his teeth and swung his saber at the trench wall in frustration, causing a small avalanche of dirt and stone. “I cannot vouch for my temper,” he said, unable to let the insult go. “But you should know that it could be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.” He meant it as a threat, implied a dark menace in his tone even as he fell upon a small battalion which had just run out of a trench line perpendicular to the one Melwas was in. As he hacked his way through, he saw several fall suddenly and knew that the agent was helping. His shot was perfect; he never missed. His proficiency infuriated Melwas even more.

“That… is a fault indeed… I cannot even laugh at it,” said Cipher Nine, only pausing to take a shot. “Turn here. There’s another battalion coming. Company of 30.”

Melwas fell upon the army and slaughtered them as he wished he could slaughter the cipher’s words.  _ A fault, indeed!  _ He thought, deflecting a rain of bullets into several of the rebels and leaping on the nearest one saber first.  _ The fault lies with the other, not with me.  _ An almost uncontrolled burst of Force energy issued from him, throwing all enemies back and knocking several unconscious. Melwas threw his lightsaber in an arc and sliced the heads off three rebels, and as he did, he said, “Every disposition has a tendency to a particular evil,” meaning to imply that the evil lay with the “other” who would have lost his good opinion. He did not think he could be any clearer in his meaning, though it occurred to him that he might be trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince the cipher. No sooner did such a thought enter his mind than he rejected it forcefully by channelling it into more hate: more fuel for slaughter.

The rebels’ numbers thinned until the cipher agent picked off the last three with deadly headshots while the sith ensured that every body on the ground was good and dead. Melwas thought he could see the spire of the comm relay plunging up out of the next trench over.  _ Good, this wretched mission is almost over and then I shall be finished with this… insufferable agent. _

“Almost there. It should be at the end of this trench to your right. I’m in position,” Cipher Nine said after a few minutes. Then: “It seems to me the evil in your disposition is a propensity to hate everyone.”

The analysis jarred Melwas, and he regretted that there were suddenly no troops ahead of him to take the brunt of his fury. “And yours is to willfully misunderstand them.” Even Melwas knew not what he meant by such a retort. The louder, angrier, prideful part of his brain insisted that the agent willfully misunderstood that he was the “other” who had lost the Sith’s good opinion. But the small, confused, and increasingly insistent beat of his heart murmured that the agent willfully misunderstood Melwas’ nature and social obligations.  _ Enough _ , he thought to himself, almost panicked. 

A sniper shot whizzed past his face, snapping him out of his reverie, and he managed to doge the crumpled body of a newly dead rebel. “Are you ill, my Lord? He was right in front of you,” Cipher Nine said through the comm link.

“Just testing your skills, Agent,” Melwas answered, shaking his head. How was it possible that this agent was so distracting?  _ This is unacceptable _ , the sith thought, taking a deep breath and channelling all his uncertainty, all his nervousness, all his fear into the Force such that he could almost hear the environment around himself humming with raw power waiting to be released. The central comms relay was directly in front of them: no battalions blocking the way, but a heavy-armoured guard bearing a Republic insignia. 

“It looks like you were right about Republic aid,” Melwas all but snarled as he stalked forward, lightsaber held up. “This bantha dung is mine.”

“I’ll hold off any aid he may call,” the agent said by way of affirmation. 

Melwas thrust himself forward, jumping the last 10 meters to land on the Republic heavy trooper with an animal-like scream. The Force itself seemed to direct his movements as he surrendered himself completely to its fearsome energy. The battle was not a long one; the enemy fell quickly under the unrestrained power of the Sith’s inner turmoil and in seconds he had destroyed the central computer hub. “It’s done. Let’s get back to camp.”

***************

Both the sith and the agent stayed at the camp only long enough to debrief the general, who would then report the success of the mission to his superiors. Then they made directly for Sobrik and parted ways in the spaceport. The parting was neither cordial nor hostile, indeed, they said almost nothing to one another, merely nodding. Melwas was grateful that the agent felt no need to stick around or draw out any lengthy goodbye, for he had no desire to stay longer in the agent’s presence. The sith made quickly for the  _ Fury _ and threw himself down in the captain’s chair, ignoring 2V-R8’s inquiry as to his desires.

“I’m not gonna lie, it’s really pleasant to be free of that agent,” Vette said energetically. When she got no response from Melwas, who was staring quite intently out the window at the hangar bay, nor the droid who had uttered a timid, “M-master?” the young twi’lek paced over and placed a hand on 2V’s shoulder. “I fear Lord Melwas is mourning the loss of Ciper Nine’s pert opinions and, what did Rona call them? ‘Fine eyes’?”

Without turning to face his companions, Melwas scowled and answered, “Quite the contrary, I assure you.” But he was still no more able to tell whether he was trying to convince his interlocutor or himself. 


	6. Nar Shaddaa: 11 ATC

“Ah, the Star Cluster Casino,” Kaliyo purred, hands on her cocked hips, a savage glint of excitement in her eyes—a look of which Marttirs had learned long ago to be cautious. “Couldn’t have picked a better place to wait for our next assignment.”

“I didn’t really have much of a choice,” Marttirs answered, looking around the Casino and observing the long pazaak tables with avid players around them, the rows of slot machines along the walls, the waitresses in unnecessarily revealing clothing. It was a huge interior space, multiple levels, a sort of organized cacophony of flashing neon lights, alien tongues, blaring music. It seemed almost as though if Marttirs were to go blind or deaf the place would cease to exist, for its essential architecture was not of transparisteel, glass, or bantha wool rugs, but of violent sensual stimuli. “I hope this contact of Watcher’s gets in touch sooner rather than later; I do not relish the idea of spending much time--…” The agent trailed off when he realised that Kaliyo had sauntered off towards the bar, not bothering to listen to him. He sighed and followed. Someone would have to keep an eye on her while they were there; he still didn’t quite trust her--and why should he after her obviously opportunistic shift of loyalties on Hutta which had led to her accompanying him? Not that he wasn’t glad to have her around, but… Trust was earned, and she had a ways to go.

“Hey, agent, look at that,” Kaliyo said to Marttirs who took a spot beside her at the bar. The Rattataki nodded her head at a couple a few spots down: a handsome, richly dressed man with cunning, greedy eyes and none of an aristocrat’s grace; and a pretty young Chiss woman with dark blue skin, unnerving red eyes, and chin-length light blue hair. “Looks like a couple just begging to be pulled apart by us for our gain, doesn’t it?” 

Marttirs frowned. Kaliyo seemed to be suggesting that they occupy themselves with some decidedly undignified behaviour--behaviour he certainly wanted nothing to do with. “I really don’t think-- no, Kaliyo, what are you doing?” he hissed after her, for indeed, his companion had slid away once more without listening to his objections. The agent watched in horrified despair as Kaliyo brought herself to the attention of the man--whom Marttirs could only assume to be a gangster or a corrupt merchant--and his Chiss companion, who looked back towards Marttirs after a few seconds. He nodded in greeting, expression neutral and unreadable as always, and, with a sigh, collected his drink and went to make the strangers’ acquaintance with deep reluctance.

“This is Gordon Tokalle, big name in the Black Sun,” Kaliyo said, indicating the man. 

_ So I was right. _

“Funny thing is, I actually ran a few jobs with his best crew before jumping ship, but we never actually met,” Kaliyo carried on. 

“It’s not often we run into your old employers like this,” Marttirs lied smoothly, inclining his head in greeting. “I’m Mars.”

Gordon chuckled, a mirthless, gutteral sound. “Good to meet yeh, Mars. And this here is Rija: a pretty little number I picked up a few days ago. Shipped in from Hutta, would you believe! Damn worms had her working in their factories. Well, good thing I know better than to waste such beauty on manual labour.”

Marttirs repressed the frown of disapproval which was the only reaction he could muster in response to Gordon’s dismissive and nasty speal about Rija.  _ He’s clearly as much a supremacist as most Imperials, to talk in such a way about a Chiss; anyone who pays an ounce of attention would know better than to insult her pride like that,  _ he thought. But Gordon seemed entirely unaware of his faux pas, and moreover Rija herself had completely ignored it. She merely smiled benignly at Marttirs and bowed her head in respectful greeting. Her eyes, however, belied the intelligence that her demure actions sought to hide: they were sharp, attentive, calculating. Marttirs was absolutely certain that she had not missed the insult, and even more certain that she was choosing to let it slide, though he could not yet understand her motivations.  _ Perhaps this will be a more interesting acquaintance than I had first expected _ , he mused, perfectly content to allow Kaliyo and Gordon carry the general conversation.

“Forgive me, but if you are come from Hutta, does that mean you are a slave,” Marttirs asked Rija after a few moments, once he was certain that Kaliyo maintained Gordon’s full attention.

“I was a slave, but Gordon has awarded me my freedom for my … companionship,” Rija answered. Her Basic contained a slight lilt which produced charmingly accented words. 

“You must consider yourself lucky, then, all things considered,” Marttirs said, trying to draw out whatever it was that she appeared to be hiding. 

“Indeed. There are not many who manage to escape slavery, even if they are willing to pay a steep price.” The emotion in her voice and the hardness in her eyes were subtle, but unmistakable for someone as attentive and discerning as Marttirs--too intense, it seemed, for someone who was not personally connected to the event. But there remained an element of unforgiving calculation in her manner underneath it all.  _ Is she making all this up? Surely not. Even I am not that good a liar; no, she believes what she is saying, and feels strongly about it, that much is certain. But then, she must be trying to discern my opinion on the matter,  _ he thought. 

“It is a cruel reality of the galaxy indeed,” he responded, with enough emphasis, he hoped, to deter any more investigations into his person. 

“Hey, er,  _ Mars _ ,” Kaliyo interrupted, nudging Marttirs in the ribs. “Look, it’s that hound, Lord Melwas, and his Intelligence handler.”

Marttirs felt his blood chill as a heavy, exhausting weight settled in over his chest.  _ Now? Of all places? Just when I was starting to think this place couldn’t be  _ that _ bad...  _ Ignoring the inquisitive look upon Rija’s face, the agent turned to look where Kaliyo had indicated and sure enough, there he was, the dread Sith Lord draped in his luxury robes and accompanied by none other than the esteemed Malavai Quinn who looked composed and dignified as ever, clearly recovered from his accident on Balmorra. The Sith and the agent locked eyes across the room and stared at each other for what felt like an hour. In the moment where it seemed like Melwas might have moved to approach Marttirs’ group, Rija shifted to see better and Melwas froze. Marttirs noticed how when the sith realized Rija’s presence his gaze had seemed to shift from fire to ice in that split second and he quite suddenly spun on his heel and stalked off leaving Malavai to confusedly follow suit after offering Marttirs a respectful nod. 

Marttirs watched the Sith lord sweep swiftly away, fascinated and disturbed, until he was quite out of sight, and then he exchanged a questioning look with Kaliyo, who shrugged. “Say, let’s have a game of pazaak, huh? I bet I have you all beat,” she said after half a second’s pause. The party agreed, and they made their way over to a pazaak table to buy themselves into a game. Marttirs took advantage of the distraction to sneak an inquisitive glance at Rija, who looked wholly undisturbed by what had just ensued, indeed, so much so that Marttirs was tempted to second-guess the fact that it was  _ her _ presence which so caused Melwas to act in such a way. But no, of  _ that _ he was certain. 

But why?

Marttirs was not allowed the chance to mull over the question for very long. for the game began forthwith and consumed his attention. They played several rounds (most of which Kaliyo indeed won) before Marttirs gracefully withdrew, excusing himself to go fetch a drink at the bar. Once away from everyone he was finally at liberty to consider Melwas’ strange reaction earlier to a seemingly innocent Chiss girl.  _ Seemingly being the key word,  _ he thought, for indeed he was more convinced than ever that she was not, in fact, innocent. No, there was something more to her, something deep and calculating, something potentially menacing--but Marttirs was not yet sure for  _ whom _ . The agent was so lost in thought, staring unseeing into the swirling purple of his drink, that he did not notice that the very object of his contemplation had joined him at the bar until she spoke. 

“I must confess, I thought I would never get away from your charming companion,” she said in her sweet, subtle little accent. 

Marttirs, not easily startled, looked up calmly at the Chiss girl as the world came back to him in an almost painful rush of conflicting sounds and sights. “Yes, she can be quite determined to get everyone into as much mischief as possible.”

“I must say, this Nar Shaddaa life is quite thrilling. I hadn’t known what to expect when Gordon took me in, but I find I quite enjoy it. But I don’t see those friends of yours anymore,” she said, looking around with an air of innocent curiosity. “Wouldn’t they have liked to play?”

Marttirs, despite his logical awareness, was nevertheless disappointed to discover that under no uncertain circumstances Rija had certainly witnessed the strange scene with Melwas. “I think that one of my friends would consider playing pazaak beneath his dignity,” the agent answered, careful not to pause before or linger over the word ‘friend’, though it physically pained him to refer to Melwas in such a way. 

Rija hummed thoughtfully and then said, “Have you known them long?”

Marttirs was silent for a moment, for he did not understand her persistent interest in Melwas. Surely he was just another Sith lord to her? Surely the scene had not been as strange as it had felt to him, who knew Lord Melwas?  _ The only way to gain an understanding of her interest is to keep this conversation going and use it to my advantage,  _ he decided. “No,” he answered. “Only about half a standard year.”

Rija fixed Marttirs with her intelligent red eyes and said, “I have known Lord Melwas almost my whole life. We were childhood companions.”

Marttirs nearly spit out the sip he had just taken. “You…?” For the first time in many years, he was at a complete loss for words.  _ Well, that would begin to explain the scene earlier. _

“You’re surprised?” Rija asked, mildly disbelieving. “Surely you witnessed the cold manner of our exchange earlier?”

_ Cold?  _ Marttirs thought that was certainly an understatement. “I confess I did; it could not be missed.”

“I am sure that Gordon missed it, but, then, he misses most things of importance,” Rija said flippantly with a disaffection that surprised Marttirs still more. Yes, she was much more than she appeared to be. “Have you… are you much acquainted with Lord Melwas, then?”

Marttirs laughed mirthlessly into his glass and answered, “As much as I ever wish to be. I’ve spent approximately 10 hours in his company and that is enough for a lifetime. He’s … extremely disagreeable, shall we say?”

“You know, there are very few who would share that opinion with you apart from myself,” Rija said. 

_ Lord Rona and his little twi’lek pet amongst others have made that painfully clear,  _ Marttirs thought, marvelling in the truth of what Rija said--truth which supported her wild claim to know Lord Melwas very well. “He is not much liked in my circle of acquaintances,” the agent finally replied. “We are all disgusted with his pride.”

“I wonder if he has much business on Nar Shaddaa?” Rija mused, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on her glass.

“If he does I hope it will not affect you,” Marttirs answered, quite sincerely, for he felt that anyone who disliked Melwas must at least be a decent acquaintance even if she remained a perplexing mystery.

“Oh, certainly I will not alter my style of life on his account. If he wishes not to see me, then he must avoid my haunts,” she said with a self-confident cock of her eyebrow. “For indeed, we are not on friendly terms, but I have no reason to avoid him other than that he has done me a grievous wrong.”

Marttirs raised his eyebrows, intrigued, curious. He did not know that it would be right for him to press for an explanation; indeed, he felt rather that Rija was the kind of person whom one must leave alone to  _ offer _ information. So he waited, silent, patient. He was not disappointed. 

“You see, Mars, his father and mine worked together for years--the Chiss Ascendancy, as you know, has always been better associated with the Empire than with the Republic. When my father died, his father took me in, raised me as one of his own, I think even loved me. I was meant to attend the Royal Academy, to enter the Military or Intelligence depending on my aptitude. But after he died, so did all my prospects, for the son refused point-blank to honour his father’s wishes and use his influence to establish me in the Empire. Instead he cast me out, for, as I’m sure you know, aliens have no place in the upper echelons of the great Imperial machine.” She gave him a knowing look with those intense red eyes.

Marttirs shook his head slowly. He had known, of course, of Melwas’ despicable contempt for aliens, not unlike most in the Empire--the sith were worse offenders than the humans--but this utter cruelty and disregard for any honourable action was almost more than the agent could handle.  _ I now understand her emotion concerning slavery. _ The overwhelming desire to kill something burned through his body, hot and intoxicating as Corellian whiskey.

“So you see, I’ve had to make my own way in this world,” Rija said, nodding back towards Gordon, still sat at the pazaak table.

“I knew Melwas was a despicable man, but I had never thought he would stoop quite so low. He deserves to be publicly disgraced,” Marttirs said, clenching his fist.  _ I should have let him die on Balmorra _ , he thought,  _ the consequences be damned.  _

“I doubt I should ever bring him public disgrace. Until I forget his father and the knowledge that not all sith are alien-hating monsters, I cannot openly defy the son,” Rija answered mildly with a humble smile.

Marttirs was in complete awe of his new acquaintance. “I wonder at how abominable this sith is,” he said with a little chuckle. “You are far more temperate than I would be in your situation.”  _ Far more temperate than I am in my own dealings with him, and I have never been wronged by Melwas to nearly the same extent that Rija has.  _

“Well, I do not have the resentful temper that some others have,” Rija answered. “Besides, my current situation, as you remarked earlier, is not so bad; indeed it is cause for good cheer. And now I find myself in the most pleasant company I have ever been in.” She offered Marttirs a sweet, pretty little smile. “So you see, I forbid you to feel sorry for me.”

At that moment, Kaliyo appeared and leaned on the bar between them. “Why are you feeling sorry for our new friend, Mars? Is it because she’s been stuck over here talking to you rather than enjoying a good game of pazaak?”

Rija smiled, shooting Marttirs a look of confidentiality before answering Kaliyo, “Why, it is because I have wanted to dance all evening but my Gordon has been so occupied.”

“Well if that’s all it is, there’s no time like the present,” Kaliyo said, waving Rija over to the dance floor away from the pazaak tables. Marttirs watched, his mind whirring with the magnanimity of the information he had just amassed, as Kaliyo and Rija danced together to the obscenely loud music. 


	7. Dromund Kaas - 11 ATC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the entire concept and development of the Founding Days goes to @pineaberry (tumblr) -- thank you for letting me incorportate this lovely piece of world-building <3

“Founding Days celebration?” Kaliyo repeated in a tone both skeptical and derisive all at once. “What sort of bantha fodder is the Empire trying to feed us this time?”

“It’s not bantha fodder,” Marttirs snapped. As much as he valued Kaliyo’s skills, her irreverence for Imperial custom and manners grated at his nerves considerably.  _ How _ had he ended up with a second in command who so disrespected Imperial culture? “The Founding Days is a festival which remembers the establishment of Dromund Kaas and all the hardships the Empire overcame to get to where we are now. It is a tribute to our power and glory, as well as a monument to our suffering at the hands of the Republic.”

“Sounds like a whole lot of Imp propaganda if you ask me,” Kaliyo said with an irreverent shrug.

“Well, no one asked you,” Marttirs replied conclusively, which earned him a glare from his fellow rattataki. “But, you’re expected to attend, so if I were you I wouldn’t say things like that once we land on Dromund Kaas.”

Kaliyo just rolled her eyes. “Yeah, fine, whatever. I’ll accept my little…  _ wreath _ , but don’t think this makes me a loyal Imp or anything. You know where I stand, agent--unaligned and for self-gain.”

“It would be impossible to forget,” Marttirs confirmed. 

The  _ Phantom _ slowed out of hyperspace at the intended coordinates and the jungle green and purple sphere that was Dromund Kaas came into view out of the bridge window. “Lightning storms in a lull; controlled and non-lethal atmosphere,” 2V-R8 announced from the bridge. 

“Bring her in, then,” Marttirs ordered. “ETA?”

“About 20 minutes, Master,” 2V answered.

“Let’s get changed so we can report straight to Headquarters upon arrival,” Marttirs instructed Kaliyo.

“Sure thing, boss,” the rattataki said lethargically.

The first barricade went up in flames. Then the next. Then the next. Soon, the whole of Kaas City shone with a golden-orange glow which so violently contrasted the constant purple and black dreariness of the place as to appear to bring the place to life with the hot, searing passion of the Empire’s victorious vengeance against the oppressors. Even as the constant Dromund Kaas rain poured down and drenched the citizens still throwing furniture into the flames, the heat from the fires dispelled the cold and held forth against the ravages of unforgiving nature. 

“It’s spectacular, isn’t it?” 

A cloaked figure appeared beside Marttirs, who stood atop one of the overpass bridges at the centre of Kaas City and watched the bonfires erupt at every crossroads. He had opted not to cover himself, preferring rather to display his face during the whole of the occasion--to enjoy the Founding Days as himself, with his own face--and his bare head was slick with freezing rain water which dripped off his silver piercings. He turned to face the cloaked figure and caught a brief glance of a dark blue chin.  _ Chiss _ . “Indeed. I think I almost like this better than yesterday.”

“And you haven’t even gotten to the best part of the Purple Court yet,” the figure said enigmatically, with a little laugh that Marttirs was certain he knew.

“Don’t tell me. I should prefer to be surprised.”

“An Intelligence operative who likes surprises? I am all astonishment,” the figure said coyly.

“On rare occasions, not having all of the information makes things much more interesting…  _ Rija _ .” Marttirs glanced sideways with a small, amused smile, only to find that his interlocutor had disappeared into the gathering crowd of citizens, all clad in togas and hooded capes to keep out the rain.

Melwas roared with vicious laughter. He Force-leapt halfway up a building on one side of the street to avoid the Nexu’s violently slashing claws and thrust himself forward through the driving rain to land far ahead of the other runners. He charged forward, shoving the straggling citizens back towards the beast or dangerously close to the raging fires at every juncture. Strands of pitch-black wet hair were plastered to his face and he didn’t care. The thrill of the chase, the savage brutality of survival cast a thunderclap of life energy into the sith’s every limb; all his senses were heightened and he felt vibrantly alive in a way he usually only felt when fighting--well, that  _ is _ technically what he was doing, anyways. 

Out of nowhere, Melwas slammed into the wall to his left, shoved violently off his path. He looked around. Seth’u grinned at him from the other side of the street, mocking, amused, his usually light blond hair darkened with rain. The Nexu was only 10 meters away and the other runners not far ahead. Melwas pushed off from the wall with the Force, launching himself at Seth’u who didn’t have time to dodge. Melwas threw him back towards the Nexu and started to run again, only to have his deep purple yoga snagged from behind by Seth’u. It unravelled from the top before Melwas turned around and Force-pushed his friend directly into the Nexu’s waiting claws. The sith watched for a split second as his friend dodged the beast’s first swing, then his second. Satisfied that he had distracted the beast and gotten Seth’u back for his little prank, Melwas turned and started running again, only to stumble into someone he hadn’t seen--another runner darting diagonally to avoid the blazing bonfire just a few meters ahead. They collided and landed sprawled on the ground, Melwas on his back, bare chest rippling with raindrops that continued to fall, the other runner caught himself with his hands to Melwas’ right. 

It took Melwas just milliseconds to register that the person with whom he had collided was none other than Cipher Nine. In that time, he also determined that there was no room for shock, anger, or embarrassment, for a crowd of runners and an angry Nexu were bearing down on them. Almost in unison, the two disentangled their legs--the only limbs which had remained touching upon their fall--and jumped up. Melwas could feel the Nexu’s hot breath on his face, hear the beast’s roar in his ears. Sucking in air, he Force-screamed back, challenging the beast, which was thrust forcefully back. Melwas took the opportunity and turned to run, unaware of Marttirs, who had taken the opportunity to duck stealthily back behind furniture that had yet to catch fire on the side of the road. The rattataki sat and watched as the runners and the beast turned the corner, followed by the wave of jeers and raucous laughter of the crowd. The street seemed to fall silent in the wake of the chaos, and Marttirs slipped out from behind the furniture, the unaware civilians carrying on with their celebrations. He stared at the corner where the runners had disappeared for a few moments while his brain registered and replayed that look of shock… almost  _ weakness _ … on Lord Melwas’ face as the Sith Lord lay on the ground, shirtless, more or less underneath Marttirs.  _ Shirtless _ . The agent’s brain repeated the fact, unsure quite what to do with it. He shook his head. Where had Kaliyo got to?

“That’s really extraordinary. Are you sure it’s true?” Watcher asked, her curiosity getting the better of her--her curiosity and perhaps the couple of drinks that she and Marttirs had shared. The Purple Court sector that year was home to the cantina, and as the announcement of that year’s Chancellor of Fools drew nearer, more and more people crowded into the cantina to drink and dance in celebration of the election.

“Watcher, how could it not be?” Marttirs answered. His head felt slightly fuzzy from his own few drinks, but not so much that his intelligence was impaired--only enough that he had thought it a good idea to share with Watcher Two what Rija had shared with him on Nar Shaddaa. “Every circumstance confirms it, and Lord Melwas himself has told me of his resentful, implacable--”

Watcher Two cleared her throat suddenly and fixed her eyes at a point behind Marttirs’ head. The agent interrupted himself promptly and turned to see, with no small shock, that Lord Melwas himself approached the two of them. Both Marttirs and Watcher bowed respectfully, to which Lord Melwas nodded politely. 

“If you’re not otherwise engaged, I had hoped you might do me the honour of dancing the next dance with me, Cipher,” Lord Melwas said abruptly, looking at Marttirs, but not quite meeting his eyes. 

“I… had not… why… Yes, I would be most obliged,” the agent stuttered, at a complete loss for words for the first time in a very long time. 

Lord Melwas merely nodded. “Right. I’ll go get us drinks while we wait.” He disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

Marttirs turned to Watcher in despair. “I thought you hated him?” Watcher quipped with barely concealed amusement.

“I do! He’s most hateful. Why could I not think of an excuse?”

Watcher smiled knowingly, but said benignly, “Cipher, he pays you a compliment, singling you out like this. I am sure he’s had any number of intelligence and military personnel work for him and has forgotten them immediately afterwards. You would be a fool to let your interest in this Rija lead you to slight such a…  _ promising _ Sith Lord.” She raised her eyebrows significantly, and Marttirs understood that she meant to warn him of the dangers of getting on the wrong side of the Sith. 

Marttirs opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment Melwas reappeared with two drinks and Watcher tactfully made an unobtrusive excuse to leave. Melwas offered Marttirs a drink in silence, which Marttirs accepted in silence. They stood next to each other in silence as the current song blared ever on, and Marttirs wondered  _ why _ Melwas had insisted on making the whole ordeal so painful; wouldn’t it have been much less excruciating to simply ask Marttirs to dance when the song ended and the next was about to begin? In order to  _ avoid  _ all this awkwardness? Just for something to do, he lifted the drink to his mouth and--hesitating a just long enough to wonder if it were poisoned and deciding that if it were that would at least put an end to this ordeal--took a long gulp. It was a tart, fruity mix--something Marttirs has never tried before. Then again, he didn’t drink that often, so he didn’t know many drinks other than ‘water’.  _ I can’t decide if that’s a travesty now, or if it’s to my advantage… Better to not have to suffer through whatever this is any longer? Or better not to act a fool or say something uncouth?  _ He shot a sideways glance at Melwas. The sith was no longer shirtless--was that a quiet ‘ _ damn _ ’ trying to sneak out of the dark recesses of Marttirs’ brain?--for he had rearranged his purple silk toga with a golden broach decorated in what looked like some sort of family crest. His hair had dried from earlier and was, mostly, pulled back into a little pony at the back of his head. He was as taciturn as always, with that same look of vague contempt for his surroundings that he always wore. Suddenly Melwas turned his head and looked over at Marttirs, their eyes meeting golden and lightning blue. Marttirs looked quickly away, unsettled by the heat that had suddenly blossomed in his chest and cheeks from the heat of that look. He kept his eyes firmly averted and dreaded the beginning of the next song. Oh why, indeed, had he been unable to find an excuse to say no?

When the next song began, Melwas handed both of their drinks off to a cantina worker and offered the agent his hand to lead him to the dance floor. He noticed that Cipher kept his eyes carefully averted; the agent’s control over himself absolutely astonished Melwas, who himself felt as though his insides were about to crawl out of his skin at any moment. What had he been thinking, asking this impetulant agent to dance with him? Sure, there really was no one else at the cantina who remotely interested Melwas, nor were of sufficient status to be seen as his partner. Nevertheless, had he not determined long ago that this alien agent was still decidedly beneath him? Had he not proof of the agent’s complete lack of respect, his willingness to speak as he thought rather than as he ought? Had not this agent insulted him on several occasions? Had he not found the agent to be entirely insufferable? And yet. They moved together, smoothly, flawlessly, through the steps of the traditional Imperial dance that played in the cantina and Melwas found himself vibrating with inert energy, entirely ill at ease and yet equally unwilling to call the whole thing off and just walk away. 

After some moments, Marttirs finally forced himself to look up at Melwas’ face--while still avoiding his eyes--and said, “I believe we must have  _ some _ conversation, my Lord. Just a little will suffice.”

They separated briefly as per the steps of the dance and then came back together. Seeing that Melwas had made no attempt to speak, Marttirs carried on, “You could say something about the festivities, for example…” He twirled on Melwas’ cue. “And I might remark on the turnout of citizens.”

After a few more steps of taciturn silence as a response, Marttirs sighed resignedly and rolled his eyes.

Frowning slightly, Melwas asked, “Do you talk as a rule, then, when dancing?”

“Sometimes it is best,” Marttirs answered shortly. “Then we might enjoy saying as little as possible to one another.”

They drew apart and then back together. “Do you seek to gratify your own feelings in this manner, or mine?” 

“Both, I imagine.”

Melwas twirled, this time, dislodging a strand of his pitch black hair. He left it hanging in front of his face, obscuring one of his golden eyes, but said nothing.

Marttirs pressed on. “We are both of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless we are expected to say something that will amaze the entire room,” he observed. Did Melwas truly intend to dance in silence? As if that would be any less painstaking than saying nothing to one another to fill the silence for a few short minutes?

“That bears no too striking a resemblance to your own character, I’m sure,” Melwas replied icily. Was the Cipher determined to make the encounter as personal through savage dissection as he had their mission? Could he not carry out an official function in peace?  _ Is this really an official function?  _ A snide voice in his brain asked him before he could block out the question. But it seemed that his response had had the intended effect: Cipher made no response, and went back to keeping his gaze carefully averted from Melwas. The song carried on and they danced several more steps in complete silence--steps which saw the return of the anxious energy that seemed to want to burst from inside Melwas. Finally, he could no longer remain in silence; something  _ had _ to be said--the agent was right.

“Er, do you often pass your free time in the Star Cluster Casino?” Melwas finally asked, looking at the Cipher intently.

“What makes you think I was there in my free time?” Marttirs answered elusively. He offered no more information than that, and carried on dancing in silence for a moment more, thinking. This was his opportunity to hint at his newfound information. Was that dangerous, goading a Sith just so? But, then, when was maltreatment of aliens something so incriminating for the sith elite? No, he could suffer no real repercussions as a result of what Marttirs knew; but he could be made significantly uncomfortable--and wouldn’t that be fun, to make a  _ sith _ uncomfortable for once? “When you met us, that day, we were just forming a new acquaintance,” he said neutrally, glancing sideways at Melwas to observe his reaction.

Melwas’ face grew sterner, if that were possible, and he said bluntly, “Rijalu has the happy manners which allow her to make friends easily.”

_ Rijalu?  _ Marttirs filed that didbit of information away for a later date. 

“Whether she is equally capable of keeping them is another question entirely.”

“Well, she had been unlucky enough to have lost your friendship in a way in which she is sure to suffer her entire life,” Marttirs answered quickly, not skipping beat. Melwas turned his full gaze on Marttirs and the full heat of gold and blue lightning erupted again as they stared at one another, astonished, indignant, impassioned--so close that Melwas’ loose hair tickled Marttirs’ jaw. They held their shocked, heated silence for mere seconds, but before either of them could break it one of the Watchers from HQ appeared quite suddenly and clapped them both on the shoulder.

“Well, my Lord, I must congratulate you; such superior dancing and Imperial pride is rarely seen. And I’m sure you agree that your partner is quite worthy of you in both respects! I hope to see this occasion often repeated,” Watcher 10 enthused, clapping his hands together, his cheeks a tell-tale rose-colour. “Well, I’ll not detain you one moment longer from your deadly clever partner, my Lord. Agent.” 

Watcher 10 disappeared as soon as he had come, and Melwas and Marttirs resumed the dance, once again consumed in carefully observed distant silence. Marttirs was unwilling, nevertheless, to let the previous subject drop. “I remember you telling me once that you never forgave; that your resentment, once created, was implacable. You are very careful, then, are you not, in allowing your resentment to be created?” 

“I am.”

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not,” Melwas answered with certainty, but he could not help but observe the pointed directness of the questions. “May I ask what you mean by such questions?”

“Merely an illustration of your character. I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?”

“I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as to puzzle me exceedingly.”

The last notes of the dance played and when they finished, Melwas led Marttirs back off the dance floor. “I wish,” he said as they approached the bar at the edge of the dance floor, “that you would not attempt to sketch my character at the present moment.” They stopped, but Melwas did not directly let go of Marttir’s hand. Instead, he looked at the agent directly and with great intensity, and said, “I fear the performance would be to neither of our credit.”

“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity,” Marttirs replied, thinking to himself that surely the Force or whatever controlled individual fates had finished with putting the two of them in one anothers’ way by now.

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” Melwas said, only then releasing the agent’s hand and leaving with a respectful nod. Marttirs watched him leave, completely perplexed by his behaviour and even more so by his own. “I think I need a drink,” he muttered to himself, grateful, at least, that he was near the bar. Perhaps a good strong drink would help him forget the tingling of his hand where Melwas had continued to hold it just moments prior--at the very least it would make his whole body tingle, so he wouldn’t only feel the ghost of Melwas’ touch anymore. 

Not much later, the Chancellor of Fools was declared and the cantina--all of Kaas City--roared with laughter and tears during his acceptance speech. The great party ensued in earnest, with the great fun of accusing the Chancellor and other senators of spectacular and increasingly ridiculous crimes really getting underway--in addition to the greater fun of listening to the nonsense responses that the political fools dreamed up. A round of such questions had begun in the cantina, where the Chancellor had not yet made it out the door the crowd of jeering Imperial citizens was so thick. “Chancellor, Chancellor, is it true that you once overdosed on a  _ performance  _ stim and then paid a Hutt for his slave girls and his silence and that’s why we couldn’t fund the war for Taris?”

“The Empire is responsible for the fall of Taris; they were far too strong for us. But nowhere does it say that what I do on my own time has to be done on my own dime. I mean, I’m paid by the citizens, right? That’s what taxes are  _ for _ .”

The crowd jeered and laughed. 

Marttirs snorted into his drink at such an unpolitic response. In all his work so far, he’d never encountered Republic senators yet, and if this is how they were, he hoped he never would. 

“Agent. Cipher Nine,” said a voice behind him. 

Marttirs turned and was surprised to see that little twi’lek girl who followed Melwas around. Her master was nowhere to be seen, thank the Force. 

“Agent, I hear you’re pretty fascinated by that Rijalu. No doubt she forgot to tell you, amongst other things, that she’s only the daughter of a Chiss operative,” she said, shuddering with obvious dislike and distrust. 

Marttirs frowned. He never got off on the right foot with an alien who berated fellow aliens in purist Imperial fashion; to do so was an affront and a betrayal.

“But, seriously, Cipher, as a friend, let me recommend you not to believe a word she says. She really did treat Melwas like bantha poodoo.”

“Has she? How?” Marttirs asked defensively, crossing his arms. 

“I don’t really know the details, but I do know that whatever it is you think you know, Melwas isn’t in the least to blame,” the twi’lek said, her voice softening momentarily, almost in pity. “I really don’t envy you, discovering the guilt of a new ally, but what could have been expected, given her descent?”

“Her guilt and her descent appear to be, according to you, the same. I’ve heard you accuse her of nothing worse than being the daughter of a Chiss Agent, and she told me that herself,” Marttirs answered harshly, drawing himself to his full height. 

“Sor-ry, Cipher. I meant well,” the twi’lek said, throwing him a nasty look and stalking away. 

Marttirs huffed and rolled his eyes. “Insolent girl,” he muttered, turning back to his drink only to find that Watcher 2 had appeared and was sitting on his stool… watching.

“Cipher…” She said in a tempering tone.

“No, really, I see nothing in her attack other than her own willful ignorance in a man such as Lord Melwas,” Marttirs answered, ordering another drink.

“Let’s go outside, it’s stifling in here, and the sun’s gone down. I’m sure the bonfires are beautiful.”

They wandered outside to the memorial fountain where the bonfires in the corners of the square glanced off the bitch black water. The sparkling golden reflection was only sometimes fractured by the quick flashes of light purple and blue lightning that lit the sky and reflected on the water. Sitting underneath the great monument and observing the revelry with drinks in their hands, they sat in contented silence. For the first time all evening, Marttirs did not find himself thinking about Melwas or all their strange encounters, but about his own life, his career, the name he was making for himself, the meaning he was making in the galaxy. He was dazzled by the glory and might of the Empire he so loved, represented by the persistently blazing bonfires. Yes, this was where he was supposed to be, and this was what he was supposed to be doing: meaningful work to build and protect the Empire that had given him the chance for freedom, advancement, greatness. This was  _ his _ Empire.

“Look, all I’m saying is, you can take your Imperial propaganda and parade it along elsewhere, alright?”

Kaliyo’s irreverent drawl fractured the warm peace of the square and Marttirs sat up straight, looking around. His companion was across the square, clearly drunk, antagonizing a Moff in the Imperial Navy. “Blast!” Marttirs hissed.

“Isn’t that…?” Watcher started, squinting in Kaliyo’s direction.

“I’ll take care of it,” Marttirs said hurriedly, abandoning Watcher and their drinks and jogging towards the commotion, which had begun to attract the attention of the revellers in the area.  _ Great.  _

“--not my fault I’m here, alright? Look, I hate the Empire ‘s much as the next person with all its bleeding rules and reggalations… a person could suffocate under all this berrocracy,” Kaliyo slurred, stabbing the moff in the chest with her finger. 

“Now see here!” The scandalized moff interjected, batting Kaliyo’s hand aside. 

“No, you see here, pal-- you dunno who yer dealing with.” She started to reach for her gun, but at that moment Marttirs reached them and grabbed her by the wrist. 

“Don’t. You. Dare. We are leaving. Now,” he said firmly, determined to keep calm and collected before a respected superior. 

“You know this blasphemous monstrosity?” The moff asked. 

“Unfortunately.”

“I hope you have no real important place in our great Empire, young man,” the moff said. “And if you do, you can be sure that I will find out and keep a very close eye on you. This sort of dissidence is what can make us weak, and leave it to an alien not to appreciate the fortune that’s befallen them to be born into our glorious Empire.”

Marttirs merely bowed and dragged Kaliyo, stumbling, away from the scene. But though he was all respectful silence, his pursed lips and steely eyes belied the fury and embarrassment that raged in his core. Just before he reached the edge of the square where he could ascend to the upper levels of the city he had the bad luck to notice Melwas and his twi’lek friend standing with a group of well-respected moffs around a bonfire, watching the ugly encounter with disapproving and derisive expressions. Marttirs gripped Kaliyo’s wrist tighter in anger, ignoring her protests, and marched harder and faster to escape from the public eye. 


End file.
